


Obsidian's Desire

by Lomonaaeren



Series: From Litha to Lammas 2020 [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Courtship, Gossip, Humor, M/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Present Tense, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25060402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: Marcus Flint doesn’t really know what to do with his life after his father dies; his father always told him what to do. So he consults a piece of obsidian, and it directs him to Harry Potter. And, well, Potter has friends, but he doesn’t have a husband…
Relationships: Marcus Flint/Harry Potter
Series: From Litha to Lammas 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795561
Comments: 263
Kudos: 2335





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another of my From Litha to Lammas fics; this one will have two parts.

Marcus sighs in relief when he finally finds the heavy black tome on a shelf at the very back of his father’s library. This particular room was always off limits when Julius Flint was alive, and Marcus didn’t know where the book was. He blows off dust and opens it. For a moment, the pages flicker as though jaws are going to snap at him, but then the book falls still.

Marcus travels slowly through the pages, looking at each one thoroughly. Contrary to what everyone thinks, he’s not _stupid,_ but nor is he a fast reader.

He finds what he’s looking for near the middle of the book, after he’s been in the library long enough for his house-elf to bring him a lunch of ham sandwiches and butterbeer (Marcus is a man of simple tastes). The ritual is simple, which is a relief. Marcus has no patience for the kind of fussy nonsense that some wizards call rituals, circle that and pentagram this and run around the room in a widdershins direction three times, except when you’re supposed to switch to sunwise.

This ritual just requires a pristine piece of obsidian, which Marcus has already seen among his father’s Potions ingredients, and a silver bowl of pure water. Marcus has the bowl, and his elf, Reginald, will know where to get the water.

Marcus smiles and calls Reginald to fetch the bowl and the water. Soon he’ll know the answers to his questions and can stop with all this _thinking_ that makes his head hurt.

*

The ritual takes place outside at the full moon. Marcus waits patiently in the center of his grounds, near a place that earlier Flint generations marked with a huge obsidian boulder. Just like the piece of obsidian in the ritual. Marcus takes that for a good sign.

When the moon sparkles down into the silver bowl of water, Marcus drops the piece of obsidian into it. A black spark of light comes up. Marcus sits down and looks, seeing what can be seen in the face of the moon.

Inky darkness tumbles across it, as if the obsidian is bleeding, and then resolves into a tangle of black hair. Marcus frowns thoughtfully. The hair looks almost familiar, but he’s not sure. He’s not sure about a lot of things, though, so he just waits.

Then the silver water seems to gather itself, and a pale face forms beneath the hair, with—green eyes.

Marcus might still not recognize him, because it’s been seven years since he saw him in person, but the bright scar is there as a jagged line on the forehead, darker there than it is in reality. Marcus thinks, anyway.

Harry Potter.

Marcus sits back with a surprised huff, and the vision in the bowl of water disappears. The piece of obsidian floats back to the surface, and Marcus palms it and tucks it in his pocket while he thinks about things.

He always thinks through them, in the end.

*

In this case, it takes him a week.

There’s realistically only one place that he can occupy in Potter’s life, Marcus decides after a while. Potter has plenty of friends. He had mentors, but they all died, and he probably wouldn’t welcome another one. If Potter was a Dark Lord, well, problem solved, Marcus would just go and ask for his Mark, but he isn’t and Marcus can’t. And Potter can defend himself well enough that he wouldn’t like having a bodyguard around all the time.

There’s the boyfriend position, but Marcus disdains such an impermanent tie. His father was engaged to his mother from their second date. Marcus is going to be Harry Potter’s husband, a _formal_ position.

Of course, he doesn’t know if Potter will want to date him. He only dated a Gryffindor and a Ravenclaw at school. But Marcus knows that Potter will have done some growing up since the war, and he hasn’t been with anyone—at least, that the _Prophet_ reported—for over a year now. There’s at least the chance Marcus can ask.

If Potter rejects him, Marcus will try a few other things. But he will at least propose the formal marriage that would mean protection for _everyone_ Potter cares about. If one of his friends gets a snide paragraph written about them in the paper by Skeeter? Marcus can threaten Skeeter. And there’s the Flint family name and wealth that can be piled in behind him.

Once, that fortune had to be distributed among a lot of people, but Marcus’s father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were all only children. His mother’s family doesn’t want anything to do with him, or anyone who had relatives among the Death Eaters. Marcus is all right with that. Other than sometimes sending him expensive gifts when he was a toddler, they haven’t wanted anything to do with him in years.

But Marcus won’t know anything until he asks Potter, and there are traditional ways of doing that. First, he’s going to send an owl.

*

“Flint.”

“Potter.”

Potter looks at him with a cool, assessing gaze that impresses Marcus. He’s sure that he never saw it when they were at Hogwarts. On the other hand, most of the time they were at Hogwarts, he was in an entirely separate House and classes from Potter, or screaming at him from across a Quidditch pitch. Not a good way to see someone’s eyes up close, that.

“Shall we sit down?” Potter asks after a second of them standing on either side of the small round table in the back of the private dining room at Le Chateau. The Flint name has lost some of the pull it once had, but Marcus’s glares haven’t.

“Sure.” Marcus watches closely as Potter tugs his chair out roughly and sits. Not used to having someone else do it for him, then. That’s promising. It means that Marcus has yet something else he can offer Potter.

“I was surprised to get your owl,” Potter continues, leaning forwards over the table and clasping his hands on it. Marcus notes both the elbows on the table and the silent buzz of extreme power that seems to surround Potter, a kind of dormant power, as if he doesn’t know it’s there or is committed to not using it. That makes it easier to believe that Potter died and came back.

“Why? I was clear in my owl.”

Potter pauses for a long moment, long enough for the menu to form in between them on shining crystal panes that split the table in half. Marcus idly glances at the selections. He already knows what he wants.

“You mean the owl wasn’t—in code or a joke?”

“No,” Marcus says, frowning a little. “Why would it be?”

“Because—” Potter sprawls back in his chair and runs his hand through his thick dark hair. He could use some new shampoo, Marcus thinks. And it would look better if he let it grow. “You can’t seriously think that I’m looking for a _husband._ ”

Marcus shrugs. “A lot of our kind get married young, so I wouldn’t be surprised. And if you’re not, we can put off the wedding for a few years.” It’s the betrothal he wants, the formal arrangement that guarantees him security and a leader to follow.

“ _Our_ kind?”

“Wizards. Did someone cast a Confundus Charm on you when you came through the Floo, Potter?”

Potter puts his hand over his eyes. “I just thought—you wouldn’t refer to me as your kind. What with me not being a pureblood and all.”

“Oh.” Marcus shakes his head. “Blood purity has always been less important to my family than power, Potter. And you’ve got power _oozing_ off you.” He studies the buzz around Potter again. “It’s really attractive.”

“It’s—” Potter was starting to take his hand down from his eyes, but now he puts it back again. “Flint, you can’t just _say_ things like that.”

“Who’s going to stop me? And are you going to choose the thing you want off the menu so the damn thing will disappear?”

“I don’t want anything to eat, and besides, I can’t read French.”

“Well, you can share some of mine, then.” Marcus traces the tip of his wand along his selection, and the menu gives a wink like a star blinking out and disappears. “Anyway, you could stop me from saying things like that, if you want. You can just tell me not to, and then I won’t.”

“Does that mean that you’ll give up on this ridiculous courting offer, as well?”

Marcus frowns. “I’ll let you know, Potter, that a lot of people would be very happy that someone was offering to court them. I mean, you might have lots of offers, I don’t know. But courting is very respectful.”

“As opposed to throwing someone over your shoulder and running off with them to your common room?”

“A house, not a common room. That’s where we used to take abducted spouses. You can’t have the first joining happen in the middle of a common room. That’s way too public.” Marcus peers thoughtfully at Potter, wondering if this is a kink of his. Maybe Potter has been participating in public rituals or something of the kind.

“Flint, I was _kidding._ ” Potter shakes his head, making his hair tumble wildly over his shoulders the way it did in the image in the silver bowl. Marcus admires it. He likes that. His own hair is straight, and some people have told him it’s handsome, but it’s a lot lanker than Potter’s. “I can’t—I don’t want to marry you.”

“Well, not right now, of course. The idea is too new. But are you going to refuse my courting offer?”

Potter sends him a baffled look. “Why would you think that I’d take it?”

“You haven’t rejected it yet.” Marcus grins at Potter and props his elbow on the table to flex his bicep a little, testing a theory. Yes, Potter’s eyes rest on it, which at least says that he doesn’t prefer witches to the _exclusion_ of wizards. “Are you afraid to do it or something? I mean, I’d send another one, and I’d keep trying to convince you to let me court you, but I wouldn’t try to kill you right here.”

“Elsewhere, then?”

Marcus lifts his eyebrows. “I like your sense of humor. That’s attractive, too.”

Potter coughs, and jumps a little as their plates pop up in the middle of the table. “Is that _snails_?”

“Escargot,” Marcus says, and thinks about picking up some from his plate to feed it to Potter. No, that’s probably too soon. “Try it. Maybe you won’t like it, but then you can at least say that you don’t like it the next time someone asks you.”

Potter accepts some, looking entirely bewildered. “Look, no one has ever offered to court me before. I didn’t even know what it meant until I looked it up in a book. I didn’t know what was the best way to reject it. And I don’t know why _you_ would be interested in me anyway.”

“You don’t think I know power and beauty when I see it?” Marcus rolls his eyes. “Come on, Potter. I know I’m not the most intelligent person in the world, but no one could fail to see what you are.”

“People sure did for years at school.”

Marcus studies Potter. He didn’t know Potter would take that rejection so personally. He always kept going and defeated a basilisk and sort of won the Tournament when they scorned him, after all, and he survived the Dark Lord’s resurrection. Marcus doesn’t think he could have done that.

It’s a new realization. He just hasn’t compared himself directly to Potter very much. But it makes him all the more certain that his decision to court Potter is the right one.

“Well, I wouldn’t do that to you,” Marcus says, and pops a snail into his mouth. It’s delicious. “Besides, why wouldn’t you just reject the courtship offer outright if you wanted to?”

Potter frowns at him. “It’s really none of your business.”

“My family doesn’t hold that much power now,” Marcus persists, enjoying the annoyed look Potter gives him. “And you don’t owe us a favor the way that some people could argue you owed the Malfoys.”

“No, I don’t owe you anything.” Potter’s eyes glint as he leans forwards across the table. “I could get up and walk out of this restaurant right now, and the damage would be to _your_ reputation, not mine. People would assume that you said something to offend me or something like that, and they would mutter about you behind your back, and some of them wouldn’t want to do business with you.”

Marcus laughs aloud, delighted. From the wary expression on Potter’s face, he wasn’t supposed to respond that way. Marcus toasts Potter with his buttery hand and grins. “It’s good to see that you’re taking advantage of the power that you ignored all the time you were in school.”

Potter frowns and doesn’t say anything for a second. Then he asks, “Seriously, Flint, why _me_? There are purebloods you could court.”

“I already told you. You’re attractive and powerful and you have a sense of humor I like.”

“But there should be more important things when it comes to someone you’ll spend the rest of your life with.”

“Like what?”

Potter falters for a second, as if he can’t believe that Marcus isn’t leaping at the chance to abandon him. Then he straightens his shoulders and says, “Money. Bloodlines. How much good they can do you in the world. The—”

“You don’t believe in that bollocks, Potter, and I know you don’t.” Marcus picks up a piece of the crusty baguette that’s appeared next to the escargot and reaches for some of the sopping garlic butter. “You’re just mumbling the kinds of things that you think purebloods ought to find attractive.”

“I’m _not_ mumbling!”

“Sure you are. I could offer you elocution lessons if you want them.”

Potter stares at him, and for a second, Marcus thinks he might get up and storm out the door. And then, incredibly, he laughs and leans back in his chair, tossing his head a little as if he thinks that will make him more attractive.

It does, of course. Marcus thinks that there’s not much that won’t make him attractive. Not that he’ll let Potter know that right away. It would give him too many indications of his own power.

“Say that I permit this courtship to go ahead for a little while,” Potter says, and finally reaches for one of the snails. “What will you do next? Are you going to send me a contract, or formal gifts, or some promise to smite my enemies, or what?”

Marcus perks up, because he knows which of those options he’d like best. “Which enemies would you like me to smite?”

Potter blinks. “It’s an example, Flint. I don’t have any enemies I can think of.”

Marcus rolls his eyes, because _that’s_ just an example of Potter not applying his native intelligence to the real world. “Come on, Potter. The Death Eaters who are still at large? The Lestranges? Fenrir Greyback? Of course they want to kill you, and the Ministry hasn’t shown that much success at capturing them.”

Potter looks at him strangely. “The Ministry captured the Lestranges last month.”

“Those turned out to be two _Obliviated_ fools under Polyjuice guise,” Marcus says. He makes an impatient gesture when the strange look continues. “Come on, the Ministry only admitted it on the back page of the _Prophet_ last week, but they still had to admit it. Don’t you pay attention to news of your enemies?”

“I don’t read the _Prophet_ all the way through. It’s so rarely worth it.”

Marcus grunts in agreement, but he’s already seeing how his role in Potter’s life might shape up. He can be the strong left hand that defends him against those enemies he’d probably prefer to ignore. “Do you mean me to find the Lestranges and take care of them?”

“It would be dangerous for you.”

“For _me_?”

Marcus just wants to make sure he’s heard right, but Potter seems to take it as an insult. He leans forwards, his eyes blazing, and his power surges out around him, draping the table like a giant’s hand for a second. “Yes, for _you_ ,” he bites out. “You might be a Slytherin, sure, you’re probably skilled at Dark Arts, I don’t know for sure. But you’re only a couple years older than I am. The Lestranges are _Death Eaters._ ”

“I’m touched you care,” Marcus says, and lets his hand rest for a second on Potter’s arm. He really is. It bodes very well for the future. “But one thing you need to realize is that I can take these idiots.”

“Why? Don’t take this the wrong way, Flint, but you were known for brute strength at Hogwarts, not—deeper pursuits.”

“You can say it,” Marcus says, unoffended. “I’m not smart. But I can give you what you need that you might not get from other people.”

Potter closes his eyes, then stands. “I—I appreciate the offer, Flint, but I really can’t have anyone else risking their lives in my name.” He snatches a crust of the baguette and turns to leave, then pauses. “How many Galleons do I owe you for the meal?”

“Please, Potter. This is my treat. A small enough thing to do for sending you a courtship offer that you’d apparently rather not continue in the first place.”

“I didn’t say that.” Potter’s voice is subdued, but Marcus manages to hear him anyway, and every nerve in his body twangs like a cut hamstring.

“Then what are you saying?”

Potter gives him a look as conflicted as his heart probably is, and leaves him there.

*

As far as Marcus is concerned, he’s on probation. That means he might have a chance to win Potter’s heart, but he has to do something spectacular to prove his intentions.

And he’d like to. Potter’s attractive, and he seems to have at least the same amount of compassion for Marcus that he’d have for anyone else who might try to confront the Lestranges. That’s better than a lot of the arranged marriage partners Marcus might be facing if his father was still alive.

So the first courting gift is going to be finding the Lestranges. Bringing them to Potter alive if he possibly can. If it were anyone else, he’d bring their heads, but Marcus is sure Potter is a bit more _modern_ than some purebloods.

Which is why he’s waiting here outside Knockturn Alley, his hood pulled up over his face. His father taught him charms that make the ones Unspeakables use to disguise themselves look clumsy. No one is approaching him, which is normal for Knockturn Alley. Marcus watches people come and go.

He can be patient when he wants to. He just didn’t need to be, in school, except when he had to repeat his seventh year and his father threatened him with worse than expulsion if he didn’t sit down and study. And now he blends into the background and memorizes the faces of people who come and go.

Marcus isn’t smart, maybe. But he understands Death Eaters and blood purists from the outside in, and there are needs those people have. If the Lestranges don’t show themselves tonight, Marcus will see people who have those same needs, and can lead him to the places they might be found.

He quickly identifies the shabby little building near the center of the Alley, just one among other dilapidated buildings and brothels and pubs and apothecaries. Except that it has too many people who aren’t hags coming into it, and it doesn’t admit the werewolves and other creatures Marcus can see skulking around, and when he drifts silently closer, he can make out the symbol of the black skull with shining red eyes above the door.

Marcus thinks about coming back tomorrow, but why should he? The traffic is decreasing a little as evening comes on, and he has the location he needs. And Potter is right that he’s more known for brute force than anything subtle.

That doesn’t have to be a bad thing, of course.

Marcus draws his wand and strides through the front door. He receives a confused, shifting impression of shadows, jungles, statues with sharp teeth, someone reaching for him with long fingernails, but precisely because he’s not the sort of person who would have to seek out this place on a regular basis, he shakes off the attempts at mind control. In the end, he’s walking through a large, grimy room with black basins sunk in the floor here and there, and his wand aimed at the large piece of tree trunk off to one side.

“I need information,” he says.

The tree ripples, and a shadowy, nymph-like form emerges. It’s slender, and parts of it roll under the skin as if it’s not sure what it wants to be. Marcus knows that it’s neither male nor female, but becomes the most desirable form as seen by those who deal with it.

Marcus holds his Occlumency shields high and ready, and in the end, the creature bows its head and says, “I deal in the presence of Darkness, not secrets.”

Marcus just nods. This is a place where those who practice the Dark Arts so often they become addicted come to bathe in that presence and shore up the cracks in their souls. They don’t have to pay anything because their basking inadvertently feeds the creature in front of him.

Marcus doesn’t have that weakness, though, so what he says next doesn’t cost him anything personal. “And I deal in fire.”

The creature hisses and recoils. It seems to be shrinking under the cloak of shadows, but Marcus knows it isn’t. Part of it is shielded in the tree, which is ancient, petrified wood, and could resist the flames better. “You dare!”

“Yes.”

The creature pauses as if considering him, probably trying to read how Dark he is on his aura. Then it says, “I don’t believe you.”

Marcus turns around and shoots a firebolt at the nearest black stone basin sunken into the floor. There’s a long wail as his spell connects, and not only the basin but the air around it sunders and burns. When it’s gone—after a spell of shrieking from the creature that makes Marcus want to plug his ears—there’s still a smear there that seems like the negative of moonlight. Nothing this steeped in Dark Arts can resist fire, either the light of it or the purifying effects.

“But you are Dark.” The creature sounds confused and dazed as it stares at him, its claws curling in on its hands.

“Not your kind of Darkness.” Marcus deals in blood, not Dark Arts. “I need names. Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange. Where are they?”

*

“Let me get this straight.”

Potter’s voice is stilted, full of conflicting emotions. Marcus smiles. That’s all right. He’s going to give Potter the chance to absorb the sight of the Lestrange brothers lying senseless on his doorstep, while Marcus stands behind them.

And if the moment that passes also gives Marcus a chance to let the ringing in his head subside and his ear stop bleeding, well, that’s his business, isn’t it?

“You went after the Lestranges after I specifically told you not to—”

“No, you said they were Death Eaters, and I said I could take them, and you said I was stupid. You were wrong.”

Potter drags his hand down his face and stares at the Lestranges again. Marcus follows his gaze and wonders what the bloke’s worried about. Yes, they’re both smeared with ashes and the like, but they’re alive.

“It looks like Rodolphus has a broken leg.”

“Yeah, he came after me and I conjured a snake to trip him.”

“And—Rabastan’s left arm is gone.”

“I had to rip it off. But I cauterized it.”

Potter stares at him with a pointed look, or what Marcus has the feeling is supposed to be a pointed look. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from or what’s inspiring it. He settles for smiling hopefully back, and ignores the people peering out of their windows around Potter’s small cottage in Hogsmeade. He didn’t do this for _them._

He did it for the man who still hasn’t rejected his courtship offer, despite all his haughty words about how he should, and who is staring at the Lestrange brothers now with an expression that’s even harder to read. Marcus finally has to ask. “Do you want me to turn them over to the Aurors?”

“Of course! Why did you bring them here in the first place?”

“So you could see that I was the one who captured them, of course. Having someone else capture them isn’t much of a courting gift.”

“We _aren’t_ courting.”

“Then you should send me a formal rejection.” Marcus folds his arms, and watches the way Potter’s eyes trace along his biceps. A smug victory dance would be out of place in public, so he doesn’t do it, but he feels a quiet satisfaction. He _knew_ Potter wasn’t as exclusive as the _Daily Prophet_ was implying he was, by always sighing over “which witch” has “captured the Savior’s heart.”

Potter can like both. The way he stared at Oliver Wood during Quidditch practices that the Slytherins watched certainly implied it.

“I don’t _have_ to.” Potter’s voice sounds a little distant, and then he snaps his eyes away from Marcus’s arms and back to his face, flushing.

“Look all you like, Potter.” Marcus flexes this time. “It’s all for you.”

“You’re a barbarian.”

“A fit barbarian. And yes, you have to send me a formal rejection, or you’re allowing the courtship to continue. Until the point where one of us says that’s enough, and we have to make the final rejection—which means we can’t even be friends afterwards—or we have to accept that we’re getting married.”

“How many gifts do you send me before we say that’s enough?”

“I don’t know.”

“What?” Potter’s eyes shine at him from behind his glasses, which Marcus can’t wait to remove when he snogs him.

“You’re the one who makes the decision.” Marcus shrugs and steps back, turning a little, so that Potter can admire his arse. He might say all he likes that he doesn’t care about that, but his eyes are lingering. “I mean, there are people who say it’s bad form to reject the courtship right after an expensive gift or after seven of them, but that’s just a lot of old fussy etiquette. There are no formal _rules_ except I give you gifts, you make up your mind, and then you reject me or you accept me.”

Potter stares at him. “And you won’t take back the courtship gifts.”

“I’m not letting these gits out of Azkaban.” Marcus gestures at the Lestranges. “Rabastan almost burned my head off.”

“I _told_ you they were too dangerous—”

“Does it look like I needed your warning?”

Potter’s eyes go indecisively back to the space where Rabastan’s left arm should be. “No,” he admits.

“Then assume I know what I’m doing.” Marcus winks at him. “Enjoy your gift.” He turns around and Disapparates. Potter is a bit wrongfooted with him right now, a bit lost in his thinking about what he should do, and a bit dazzled.

Marcus knows how to quit while he’s ahead.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s not entirely surprised when he gets an owl from Hermione Granger a few days later. Potter’s refrained from announcing the courtship to the public, which is only sensible of him, and Marcus isn’t really worried about him accepting someone else’s courtship in the meantime. Why would he? Right now, Marcus is giving him something he wants, even if Potter doesn’t want to admit it.

But asking Potter to keep the whole thing a secret from his friends would be foolish. So Marcus offers to meet Granger in Hogsmeade, and then in Diagon Alley when she refuses the Hogsmeade meeting. Apparently she supposes that the first choice is a trap.

In the end, Granger is waiting for him outside Flourish and Blotts, frowning heavily at him. Marcus nods to her. She isn’t to his taste, and not because of her blood. She just doesn’t blaze with power the way Potter does. But there’s nothing to be gained from being impolite to the woman who will essentially be his future sister-in-law. “Hello, Granger.”

“What is this all about, Flint?”

“Oh, that’s interesting. So Potter didn’t tell you in detail?”

“Harry tells me everything!”

“I’m just trying to figure out how much you know, Granger.” Marcus puts his best conciliatory look on. From the way Granger glares at him, she doesn’t think it’s worth much. But she does turn and march ahead of him into the bookshop, which must mean they’re going to have a quiet discussion, Marcus reckons. Granger doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’ll make a fuss when surrounded by books.

And she does calm down once they’re seated at a table near the back that seems meant for kids. Marcus tries not to hunch with his knees under his chin and tries not to resent Granger. “I want to know why you’re courting Harry.”

“He’s attractive. He’s powerful. And he doesn’t have that many other spaces available for me.”

Granger frowns. “Available for you?”

“He doesn’t need a friend like me, and he doesn’t have followers or political ambitions, so I can’t help him like that. I could have asked to be his boyfriend, I suppose, but that’s an informal arrangement, and I want a formal one.”

Granger stares at him in silence. Then she shakes her head. “I’ll never understand purebloods.”

Marcus chooses not to respond. He does think that’s accurate, but it wouldn’t be diplomatic to tell Granger.

“Harry’s not gay.”

It takes Marcus a moment to remember the Muggleborn slang that sometimes even got tossed around in Slytherin, when someone wanted to single out the concept. He shrugs. “All right.”

“ _All right,_ what?”

“So he hasn’t wanted to date blokes exclusively. That’s what that word means, right? I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

“Purebloods don’t have a word for that? Why not?”

“Because someone could date a woman or a man or both if they wanted,” Marcus says. “A lot of purebloods don’t really date many people. They’ll go to dances or parties with someone, and then they’ll probably marry that person and have children. But they could still have lovers on the side if both spouses agreed to that. Or maybe their spouse dies, and then they marry someone else. What does it matter if someone chooses a man the first time and a woman the second, or has a wife and female lovers?”

“But it means that Harry might want to date a woman if he’s not gay.”

“All right,” Marcus says, when he’s twisted his brain a bit trying to understand that. “Then he’ll reject my courtship offer and go date a woman.”

“But—” Granger pauses. Marcus takes the opportunity to look around the bookshop. There seem to be more children there than he thought at first. Maybe the population is recovering from the war at last. Marcus approves. The children he and Potter have will do better in a wider world, where there’s fewer people concentrated in a small area who might have strong feelings about their last name being ‘Potter.’

Marcus does want a Flint child as well, of course. He doesn’t think Potter will object if they actually get to that stage and brew the blood-based potion to create the homunculus and then call down the spirit into it, or maybe pay a witch to carry a seed infused with their blood.

“If he’s not gay,” Granger says at last, “is it fair for you to pursue him?”

“He’s the only one who can tell me that.” Marcus shakes his head. “Besides, maybe he’s bisexual.” He’s proud of himself for remembering the Muggleborn word. He can already see that this kind of thing is going to be necessary when dealing with Granger, although he still doesn’t really know _why._ Do people care that much about the genitals of who someone hops in bed with? Magical power matters, and for long years Marcus thought blood mattered, but what’s between your legs? It’s weird.

“Maybe.” Granger still appears unconvinced. And now that Marcus has thought of it, there’s something else. Maybe he takes a long time to think through things, but he always gets there.

“Does Potter know that you’re talking to me about this?”

“Of course he does.”

Marcus snorts. He wasn’t a prefect, but he spent seven years watching his fellow Slytherins try to lie their way out of trouble. Most of them weren’t any better at it than Granger. “Sure, crash the other broom.”

“He does! I mean, in general.” Granger sighs and shakes her head. “I didn’t want to upset him. He’s pretty occupied with the courtship offer, for some reason. Talks about it, and you, at least once a day.”

“But he didn’t actually tell you to seek me out and interrogate me about the courtship offer.” Marcus nods and stands up. “Good-bye, Granger.”

“Wait, Flint! I’m only trying to watch out for my friend, and you haven’t told me all that much about the offer.”

“Potter is the one who should get to decide how much I tell you.”

“What? You care for him that much?”

“I think he’ll make a fine husband. But besides that, Granger, this isn’t about compassion. It’s about honor.”

Granger flushes brightly. “I’m honorable. I mean, if Harry knew about this conversation, he wouldn’t mind me knowing. He talks about the courtship offer in detail every day anyway. And he let me read it.”

That is knowledge Marcus prizes and also plans to use to his advantage, but he disapproves of the way he got it. He shakes his head. “Potter should still be the one who gets to decide who talks about this, and what kind of details his friends have.” He walks to the door of Flourish and Blotts and opens it.

“I wanted to make sure that you weren’t going to hurt him.”

“I don’t think you can know that, and I don’t think you have the ability to do anything except advise Potter,” Marcus tells her, and walks out and towards the nearest Apparition point. He has to think of another courtship gift that he can send Potter, one that can show him the kinds of strengths Marcus can bring to the marriage.

“What if I advise him not to accept your courtship offer?”

“He’s still the one who has to make up his mind,” Marcus calls back, and then disappears with a pop. There were a few people in the street who heard what Granger shouted, but Marcus isn’t that worried. How many of them are going to think he and Granger are talking about _Harry Potter_?

*

Several of them, apparently. Marcus frowns at the story about their courtship on the front page of the _Prophet_ the next morning.

Potter probably won’t like that. He always hated being in the paper when they were in Hogwarts, and he despised Rita Skeeter, who’s at least busily failing in her career as an author at this point.

Well, at least it gives Marcus an idea for his next courting gift. Marcus makes sure that his wand is visible in the arm holster he’s wearing, and then turns and Apparates to the offices of the _Daily Prophet,_ a modest building in Franken Alley.

The chattering and the dashing around among the reporters stops as he walks into the main office, which is an overlarge stone room still showing holes in the floor where old walls were removed. Marcus smiles as he sees Potter standing in front of the welcome witch’s desk. Excellent. The only thing better than having come up with an idea for his next gift is Potter being there to witness him deliver it.

“Flint?” Potter asks, turning around to stare at him.

Marcus performs a sweeping bow, and turns to the welcome witch. “Where is Jasper Appleby?”

The welcome witch bites her thin red lips and seems to debate answering him, but a tenor voice rings out behind Marcus before she can. “Here, Mr. Flint. Did you have some problem with my article?”

“Excuse me,” Marcus says to Potter, who just nods and stares at him. Then he turns, walks over to Appleby, and draws his wand. He uses it to slap Appleby across the face.

Appleby reels back, one hand to the thin red line that’s standing out on his pasty skin. “How dare you—”

“That’s a challenge to a duel, in case you didn’t understand it,” Marcus drawls. “I’m giving you a free education since you didn’t know better than to write about my _formal_ courtship of Harry Potter in the bloody paper. I’m here to teach, you know. Right now, I’m going to teach you what it feels like to hurt, once you accept the challenge.” He levels his wand at Appleby.

“You can’t duel me for telling the truth!”

“I see you need some education.” Marcus grins and watches as Appleby almost trips over himself moving backwards. “When it’s a _formal_ courtship, it’s the definition of crass to talk about it in public with anyone except one of the participants of the courtship or with their explicit permission. Now, I’m bloody sure you didn’t interview me for that ridiculous article, and I hardly think my chosen would let you interview him, given his history with your idiotic paper. Now you’re going to duel me. Or apologize.”

“I wrote the article in good faith!”

“And ignorance. Which I’m here to correct, like the good professor I am.”

“You c-can’t duel me.”

“Because it’s a formal courtship, I can.” Marcus is enjoying making someone else look stupid for once. He catches Potter’s eye, and sees that he looks stunned. Marcus winks at him and turns back to Appleby, flexing a little for Potter’s sake. “But if you don’t want the duel, then you can apologize.”

Appleby swallows, and his throat bobs as his eyes dart back and forth between Marcus and Potter. Marcus takes a helpful step towards him, and Appleby gabbles out, “I’m sorry! I should never have written about your formal courtship in such detail.”

“There,” Marcus says, and pats Appleby’s shoulder. If he squeezes down hard enough to make Appleby’s face go white, they’re the only two who’ll know that, and everyone else can think Appleby is just ready to faint with fear. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

“No,” Appleby whimpers, and then leaves the office, walking as though Marcus really did kick his arse.

Marcus chuckles and turns around again, only to find Potter unexpectedly right behind him, which is a better reward than he thought he’d have. He smiles at him. “There. He won’t write about us again.”

“But you intimidated him.”

“Yes? It worked.”

Potter narrows his eyes at Marcus. “You’re going to claim this as another one of my courting gifts, aren’t you?”

“Admit it, you like it better than you would jewelry or a musical instrument or some of the other recommendations for the second courting gift.”

Potter isn’t able to subdue his smile completely where it spreads across his face. Then he shakes his head. “Hermione told me about the conversation that you had. She isn’t exactly impressed with you.”

Marcus shrugs. “I don’t want to be rude to your friends.” It would be counterproductive, given that it would keep him out of Potter’s life and bed. “But I also thought she was rude to talk to me the way she did, like saying that she doesn’t think you’re gay and so I’m somehow constraining you into this courtship.”

Potter’s mouth opens, then closes. “If I wanted to tell you to fuck off, then I would,” he murmurs, leading Marcus towards the door. He’s also lowered his voice. Discretion, Marcus thinks. He’s afraid that someone at the _Prophet_ would write about him swearing in their office. Marcus can appreciate Potter’s point-of-view, although he can also break someone’s writing hand if it comes to that. “If I wanted to date a woman, then I would.”

“That’s what I said.”

Potter comes to a halt in front of the office and studies him. “But Hermione wasn’t trying to be rude. She was just looking out for me.”

“All right,” Marcus says agreeably.

“And she got used to needing to know my secrets for years, because otherwise, it would have made it difficult for her and Ron to protect me.” Potter is talking softly to himself, looking off at the bookshop. Marcus thinks of asking whether he wants something from there for his next courting gift, but instead, Potter focuses on him again. “And it’s driving her mad that I haven’t told anyone why I decided to let you go ahead with this courtship.”’

“That includes her.”

“Yes, it does.”

“And that includes me.”

Potter’s smile widens. “Yes, it does.”

Marcus shrugs and grins at him. “All I want is for you to let me go ahead, so that’s fine with me.”

“Thanks,” Potter says. “Sometimes it’s relaxing to be around someone who’s not worried about me constantly, someone who just wants to do nice things for me.”

Marcus opens his mouth to ask if that’s the reason that Potter is allowing the courtship—not that he probably thought of Marcus as _nice_ before this began—but then Potter steps towards him. Marcus eyes him. His face is so firm that Marcus wonders if he’s about to get a scolding for offering to duel Appleby in Potter’s place, courtship gift or not.

 _No_. Instead, Potter puts his hands on Marcus’s shoulders and leans up. Marcus leans down, because sometimes he’s stupid but he’s not a fool, and Potter’s mouth brushes over his. Potter backs away a second later with a flush so bright that Marcus is surprised he manages to walk.

“Er, right, I’ll be—going now,” Potter says, and then Apparates away.

Marcus stands where he is and ignores the glances sneaked his way. No one is going to be able to write about this in the _Prophet_ or approach him and ask about it without his express permission, and Marcus finds that’s just fine with him.

*

Marcus sits up long into the night thinking about his third courtship gift. The traditional gifts are supposed to make statements, but they’re regulated so that one person doesn’t think a silver bracelet means “I’m wealthy” and someone else doesn’t think it means “This is how much I value you.” Marcus thinks that his non-traditional gifts have made pretty clear statements, though.

_I’ll fight your enemies for you. I’ll protect your privacy._

So what else would Potter value, and perhaps want someone to protect for him?

Marcus ends up going back through some of his own memories in a Pensieve. Although he was never Marked himself, Death Eaters were often in and out of his father’s house, and he listened to what they said about Potter. They talked about battling him, hating him, wishing he would die. They also feared him, although few of them used those words and Marcus didn’t know it at the time. It’s only looking back at the memory that he can see the fear in their faces.

Then one of them talks about a battle that happened as Potter fled the house where he used to live, and Marcus knows his next gift.

*

“You got me a falcon.”

“Yes.” Marcus shifts the steel cage he’s holding to scratch his arm. The cage isn’t that heavy—the peregrine falcon inside it isn’t that heavy, either—but he’s been carrying it since he left Diagon Alley.

Potter shivers and lifts his gaze to Marcus. “You know my owl died.”

“Yes. That’s why I didn’t get you an owl,” Marcus adds. Potter gives him a faintly disgusted look, and he goes on hastily. Potter probably knew it. “Falcons are really different in temperament. But peregrines are more reserved than some of the others. And you can train her as a messenger, since she’s magical, or you can use her to hunt. Or you can just let her fly free. Anything you want, really.”

“Why did you get her for me at all? Why would you think I’d want another bird?” Despite the flat tone of his voice, Potter can’t keep his eyes off the cage, and the blue-mailed bird inside who’s sitting up on her big yellow feet, golden eyes fastened on him.

“Because you don’t need to be alone. And you like to fly. You need someone in your life who can fly.”

“Some _one_?”

Marcus blinks at him. “I mean, you can already tell that she has a personality. I think she would bite me if I tried to call her less than a person.”

Potter laughs softly to himself and steps forwards to let his fingers trail down the bars of the cage. Marcus almost tells him not to do that. Magical falcons can carry post like owls, but they’re less tame. She might bite Potter, and then there would go his brilliant idea for a courtship gift.

But the falcon opens her beak and makes a soft noise, turning her head almost completely upside-down. Potter smiles and kneels down to unlock the door of the cage. In seconds, the falcon is out and flapping on his shoulder, her talons digging in. Potter doesn’t wince, which relieves Marcus. He must have bought robes with the padding in them that many shops sell for owl-owners.

“I think I’ll call her Boadicea,” says Potter, scratching the falcon’s head.

“Why that name?”

“She’s obviously a queen, Flint, come on.”

Marcus grins at Potter, the besotted expression on his face as he stares at Boadicea, and the fact that his gambled paid off, and says, “Could you do me a favor?”

“If I can. Those books on courtship said I wasn’t supposed to be the one giving you the gifts.”

“This is a favor, and you can say no.” Marcus waits until he sees the relaxation spread through Potter’s body before he nods. “Can you call me by my first name?”

Potter blinks and surveys him. “Would you do the same for me?”

“If you want it. But not as a gift. As a favor.”

The smile Potter gives him is almost as sweet as the one he gave Boadicea. “Fine. Call me Harry, and I’ll call you Marcus.”

“And can I ask for a kiss?” Marcus edges a little closer, flexing his biceps in case it helps.

From the steady flush rising up Harry’s cheeks, it probably does. But he steps forwards, balancing Boadicea on his shoulder easily, and then kisses Marcus’s cheek. Marcus tries to turn his head and catch his lips, but Harry has already moved out of the way and is shaking his head with a laugh. “You didn’t specify it had to be on the lips.”

No, he didn’t. Marcus finds himself pleased with that little bit of Harry’s cunning as he goes home.

That, and the way he took a chance on Boadicea and won, take Marcus beyond just having faith in the obsidian’s choice. It’s time to have faith in his own choices, too.

*

Marcus cocks a skeptical eyebrow as he sits down in the chair across from the desk. “I don’t know why you want to give me an Order of Merlin, Third Class right _now_ , Minister. It’s been over a month since I captured the Lestranges.”

“I know, but there was some paperwork to arrange first. In particular, we weren’t eager to give an Order of Merlin to someone who had the same last name as some Death Eaters.”

Marcus doesn’t take offense. His father wasn’t Marked, but he associated with enough Death Eaters that the mistake is natural. He shrugs. “Well, I did it as a courtship gift for Harry Potter. So if you’re supposed to give Orders of Merlin to people acting out of the goodness of their hearts, that doesn’t count, either.”

Shacklebolt pauses in the middle of shuffling papers. “Then that nonsense story in the _Prophet_ about you courting Harry is true?”

Marcus grimaces. “Yeah. Some people have no sense and decide they can write about formal courtships in public without examining the etiquette.”

“You seem to have misunderstood me, Flint. The disturbing thing is that you’re courting Harry at all, not what the _Prophet_ published about it.”

“Why?”

“Because Harry is going to be an Auror.” Shacklebolt is staring at him as if he doesn’t understand why Marcus isn’t melting into a puddle of shame on the floor of his office. “Marrying a _Death Eater’s_ son will make his reputation take a hit.”

Marcus intended to remain calm and diplomatic with the Minister, but he actually snorts at hearing that. “And Harry is such a stranger to that, with all the ways that the wizarding world has turned on him in the past. He was the Heir of Slytherin and a delusional liar and he cheated to get into the Tri-Wizard Tournament and he didn’t win the war fast enough.” Marcus shakes his head. “If Harry cared about that, he would have told me to fuck off the minute I sent him the courtship offer.”

Shacklebolt starts at the words, which is weird. He relies on the Flint family’s reputation to judge Marcus, and yet he also thinks it’s odd that Marcus would swear in front of the Minister for Magic? “You call him Harry?”

“Why not? You do.”

Shacklebolt coughs and arranges another pile of parchments. “To be honest, I thought the courtship story was a joke. Or fake. Something Harry was allowing to let you regain your family’s reputation. He’s always been far too compassionate.”

Marcus is getting bored of this conversation. “You mean, the way you used the story about the Order of Merlin to lure me here so you could question me about my courtship?”

Shacklebolt stares at him. He appears stunned to have been caught, which just says that he was underestimating Marcus due to the Flint family’s reputation again.

Marcus snorts again and stands. “I suggest you talk to Harry about this if you’re so concerned. Maybe he’ll even tell you why he permitted the courtship.”

“You mean you don’t _know_?”

“No.”

“Then why even keep this up?”

“Because I want to marry him. Why wouldn’t I keep it going?”

Shacklebolt doesn’t answer, but neither does he try to detain Marcus. Marcus just walks out shaking his head. Shacklebolt is a better Minister than Fudge in that he doesn’t attack kids in public and proclaim them liars, but it seems he’s committed to the fine Ministry tradition of assuming that they should be in control of what Harry does. And also lying.

*

The firm knocking on his door rouses Marcus out of the half-doze he’s fallen into in front of the fire that evening. He was doing his best to think of his fourth courtship gift to Harry, and so far not coming up with an idea he liked. There’s no real deadline, but he wants the next gift to be special. A bad gift might mean the difference between Harry declaring that he wants to change the courtship into a formal betrothal that can’t be broken off as easily, or that he wants to reject the whole thing.

The wards aren’t telling him there’s a threat, but Marcus doesn’t know how often he can trust them considering how his father managed to mess them up during the war. He opens the door himself, wand in hand, and blinks at Harry standing on the doorstep.

“May I come in?”

“Sure.” Marcus steps out of the way, and watches Harry look around the heavy, dark wood of the entrance hall as he sheds his dripping-wet cloak.

“A bit gloomy,” Harry observes.

Marcus nods. “If we get married, then I’m not going to insist that we live here. Or you can change the décor if you want. I’m not fussy.” He glances towards the nook where his house-elf sleeps. Reginald is old and sleeps a lot now. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No.” Harry stops him by reaching up and putting a hand on his cheek. Marcus finds himself standing absolutely still and staring down at Harry. He can feel a weight in Harry’s hand that’s as heavy as the dark wood on the walls. This is the moment when Harry decides on the courtship, he’s certain, despite the fact that he could do it any time.

“What?” Marcus whispers. His voice is hoarse, but he doesn’t feel like clearing his throat.

“I heard Shacklebolt summoned you to his office and wanted to discuss our courtship.”

“Yeah, he did.”

“What did you say to him?”

Harry’s brow is furrowed, but it’s hard for Marcus to understand why, if he’s going to get approval or disapproval. He says simply, “That I knew it was to discuss our courtship and not give me the Order of Merlin like he said. And that you could decide for yourself if marrying me would smear your reputation.”

“He _said_ that?”

“He said you were a brilliant young Auror trainee with a promising future, yeah.”

Harry drops his hand with a soft curse. He turns around and paces over to the far wall, staring at a portrait of Marcus’s ancestor Gaius Flint, who just stares back down at him with a haughty expression. Marcus’s father cursed all the portraits silent a few years ago. Marcus sees no reason to reverse the spell.

“That—why is everyone trying to control me now? I thought they would stop once I defeated Voldemort.”

Marcus clutches at his own shoulder to keep from flinching, but he can’t help laughing. “Why should they stop now? It worked so well the first time.”

“What do you mean?” Harry turns back around, and his feet are set and his chin thrust out. Shacklebolt might think twice of trying to control him if he could see him now, Marcus thinks.

But standing around admiring Harry’s good looks doesn’t answer the question, so Marcus speaks. “They manipulated you to be what they wanted you to be. To take care of their Dark Lord problem for them, by refusing to do anything about it themselves. To make you alone except for a few friends, when they all rushed to believe the newspaper articles about you. To make you think that you had the responsibility to live up to their image of you, by punishing you when you deviated from it.”

“I chose to become an Auror.”

Harry says that like it’s a question, so Marcus nods. “Right. But if you had applied to the Ministry for something else, would they have let you alone to do as you like? Or would they have made you become an Auror if it was too far away from their purpose, or manipulated and molded you to do what they wanted if they thought the Department you chose could help with that?”

Harry closes his eyes. He looks utterly exhausted now. “Please tell me that you’re not manipulating me, Marcus.”

“I want you to choose me as your husband. I’m giving you gifts.”

“Why?”

“I want to marry you. You’re powerful and fit and I want to protect you and—”

“And you don’t want to use me to get politically ahead? You don’t want to use me to resurrect Voldemort? You don’t want me to take up an important position in the Ministry so you can bask in reflected glory?”

Marcus shakes his head, more amused by the second. “Why would I want the Dark Lord back? And if I wanted an important position in the Ministry, I’d get it for myself. Political reputation would be tempting if it wasn’t impossible. As your husband, I’m always going to face more suspicion and scrutiny than I’d like.” He shrugs. “My father made his reputation, and my Flint ancestors made this family what it is. I’m not trying to redeem myself by marrying you, Harry. I want you. Sure, at first it was to gain a bit of security in a world that didn’t have a lot for me with my father gone. But now it’s about you, _along_ with the security.”

“Honesty.” Harry stands there and stares into his eyes.

“Do you really think this would survive without it?” Marcus asks with a little scoff. “Of course not. We’re too different to just assume we want the same things.”

Harry smiles abruptly. “I meant more than that. I meant that I think I owe you some honesty, too, about why I accepted your courtship offer.”

“That’s the first time you’ve said something about _accepting._ ”

“That’s because I’ve decided.” Harry steps forwards and has that shining look in his eyes again. “Yes, I want to get betrothed.”

Marcus catches Harry by the waist, while his heart hammers and his mouth asks, “And why did you not reject it in the first place?”

“I liked the thought that someone so unexpected was courting me, and sending me gifts, and didn’t mention anything in the letter about political arrangements or redemption or needing to be careful and taking our time.” Harry swallows. “I liked the thought that someone wanted me for me. I didn’t know if you did, not at first. But I thought it was likelier because you were a Slytherin and not—a friend. Not someone who just—would have expected me to be thrilled about it and half-thinking about accepting them right away. Or not someone who would have expected me to court _them_ and protect them instead. Someone who didn’t need me to be a hero.”

Marcus laughs. If Harry’s decided to accept him because of who he is, then they’re well-matched. After all, he’s fallen for Harry because of who he is, not because he was the Boy-Who-Lived.

“Come here, then,” Marcus says, and jerks Harry towards him and kisses him. Hard. Harry goes along with it, then more than goes along with it, leaning heavily on him and moaning enthusiastically as Marcus’s tongue urges him on.

Harry finally steps back and asks, “Is there room in this formal courtship period for having sex before marriage?”

“Once it’s accepted, oh, yeah,” Marcus says, and leads Harry into the bedroom.

It’s certainly accepted enough for both of them, Marcus thinks. All the other details are things they can work out later.

**The End.**


End file.
